


Philosophy in the Tragic Age of D&D

by Fallynleaf



Category: Literary RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dungeons and Dragons, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-14
Updated: 2017-07-14
Packaged: 2018-12-01 21:21:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11494992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fallynleaf/pseuds/Fallynleaf
Summary: Portland hipsters H.D., Gordy and Mel get invited to play Dungeons and Dragons with a new acquaintance.





	1. Twilight of the Idle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nocturnical](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nocturnical/gifts), [tyanite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tyanite/gifts).



> Originally serialized on tumblr.
> 
> Some of the dialogue isn't mine. I'm not going to say whose it is, but it's in the public domain, and it's probably obvious. Also, I tried my best to keep it edition-agnostic, but I'm sure my bias towards AD&D and 2nd edition shows through anyway.
> 
> If you aren't one of the three people who care about this terrible AU, I'm sorry.

No one who knew Mel, H.D., and Gordy was willing to be the Dungeon Master for a Dungeons & Dragons campaign that included them. And no one who knew Fred was willing to play in his Dungeons & Dragons campaign if he was the Dungeon Master. As it so happened, Dal, the sole mutual acquaintance between both parties, conspired to kill two goblins with one stone, so to speak. She simply told Fred that she’d found him a group, enticed Mel, H.D., and Gordy with three separate offers that each appealed to their individual weaknesses, and then didn’t bother to show up to the first meeting herself.

And so, bringing with them the grey drizzle on a Saturday afternoon, three strangers arrived on Fred’s doorstop. Even before they set foot inside, it was quite apparent that Fred’s apartment was rather cramped, somewhat dingy, and illuminated by very little natural light.

Fred himself had wan skin and a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He wore glasses and a black t-shirt with scratchy, illegible letters that most likely spelled out the name of a metal band. Mel squinted at it for several overlong seconds before he deciphered the text: it said _Carly Rae Jepsen_.

“Come in, I guess,” Fred said. He was soft-spoken, yet there was almost a kind of intensity in his manner.

He led them all to a round table. Beyond the table, H.D. spotted a glimmer of light in the darkened kitchen. A window, small and square, the sole spot of nature in the otherwise barren room. H.D. pulled back the chair that set directly opposite the kitchen. A wall blocked his view of half of the window. H.D. frowned.

Gordy slid into the chair opposite H.D. and immediately leaned back, kicking his feet up onto the table and nearly jostling over a half-empty bottle of beer, which wobbled precariously beside several stacks of books.

Mel took the seat between them, smiling at H.D., who was ignoring him completely in favor of gazing out the window.

Fred reached for the half-drank bottle of beer at the same time as Gordy. Their hands narrowly escaped collision. As Fred lifted the bottle to his lips, Gordy’s eyes followed the movement with forlorn longing.

“The first step is character creation,” Fred explained. “You will start the adventure in—”

“I am a Homeric bard,” Gordy interrupted. “Handsome, noble, eloquent. My name is known all over the land for my tales, which woo the hearts of ladies and earn me tokens of their love.”

“That’s not—” Fred started. He sighed, massaging his forehead. “The setting is Europe on the cusp of industrialization. The industrial revolution hasn’t happened yet, but everyone has a sense that something big is about to happen. Their world is about to change.”

“I live in isolation in the woods,” H.D. cut in. “Just me and Nature, apart from all technology. Alone.”

“You can play a druid if you’d like,” Fred said. “But I just explained that this is before industrialization anyways. There is nothing close to modern technology to even escape _from_.”

Mel, meanwhile, had been staring at the beefcake art on the covers of all of the books. The art depicted buff, sweaty men fighting monsters with swords. “I want to be a big, manly warrior,” Mel said. His eyes drifted over to H.D.. Already, his character was taking shape in his mind’s eye. He could see those muscled arms, and that chiseled face, edged with a handsome, scraggly neckbeard…

Fred perked up a little, pleased that at least _someone_ showed interest in playing a straightforward archetype that would fit into his campaign setting. He steepled his fingers. “Good,” he said. “You can play as a local resident of a small, German town—”

“His name is Henry,” Mel said.

“Okay. You’re playing as a fighter named Henry,” Fred said, acquiescing early, before Mel had a chance to embellish the character further. He turned to regard Gordy. “Now, about the bard—you can play a Greek bard, but the age of Homer is long past.”

“Then I shall be a _modern_ Homer!” Gordy proclaimed. “A fair youth with a lyre and a voice like silver. A descendant from the master poets of old.”

Fred sighed. He jotted something down in his notes. “And let me guess. This bard of yours, his name is—”

“Homer,” Gordy said with a nod, already insufferably pleased with himself.

H.D. was pointing at something in one of the sourcebooks. “I want to buy an axe,” he said, tapping the image with his finger.

“Why would a druid be interested in owning an axe?” Fred asked.

“I need tools to make my cabin,” H.D. explained. He started to launch into an explanation of his character, and Fred interrupted him to ask: “What is your character’s name?”

H.D. thought about it. “Solitude,” he said.

Underneath “ _Henry—big burly fighter_ ” and “ _Homer—emo fanboy bard_ ,” Fred wrote: “ _Solitude—well-greased druid lumberjack_.” He put down his pencil.

The campaign had yet to begin, and already, it was not shaping up to be anything close to what Fred had had in mind.

As far as Mel, H.D., and Gordy were concerned, everything was going perfectly.


	2. Untimely Disruptions

_“The adventure begins in Germany. Gray morning. The first yawn of reason. The cockcrow of positivism_ ,” Fred started. “ _The three of you are lonely travelers who happen to be staying at the same inn. It’s a dreary sabbath day, and the town is quiet. While you are seated at separate tables in the inn—_ ”

“Are there any women there?” Gordy interrupted. “A lovely barmaid, perhaps? Or a fellow traveller, world-weary and—”

“No,” Fred said flatly. “ _The only people in the inn are the three of you, the_ male _innkeeper, and the man who has just walked in. The man—_ ”

“Am I hungover?” Gordy asked.

“I don’t know. Are you?” Fred asked.

“How much did I have to drink last night?” Gordy asked.

“I don’t know. Just roll some dice, or something,” Fred said.

Gordy picked up the second biggest die. He rolled it with a flourish. The number on the pentagonal face read _12_. “Only twelve drinks?” he said. “I’m fine.” He kicked his feet back up on the table, satisfied.

“I bet I had more than you,” H.D. said. He grabbed another dice and rolled it by slamming it across the table. It hit Gordy’s shoe and stopped. H.D. peered down at it. “Damn,” he said. “Only seven.”

“You rolled an eight-sided die,” Fred said. “You couldn’t beat a roll of twelve on an eight-sided—” He waved his hand. “Regardless, none of this matters. For the sake of the narrative, I’m going to say that you are all currently sober, and you all feel fine.”

“How big are my muscles?” Mel asked. Before Fred could answer, Mel rolled a dice.

“You don’t need to roll dice to decide that,” Fred said. “How big do you want them to be?”

Mel sat back in his chair, a faraway look in his eyes while he considered the possibilities. “How big are the muscles on the guy who just walked in?” he asked.

Finally. A chance to progress the narrative. Fred started to describe this new character: “ _The man who just walked in is rather thin and frail—_ ” Mel looked disappointed at that. “ _—He is old, with a long white beard. He appears to be a regular in this tavern—_ ”

“If there aren’t any girls here, I’m leaving,” Gordy said.

“Is there a forest nearby?” H.D. asked. “Because if there is, I would not be staying in this inn. I would be in the woods with Nature.”

“Yes, there is a forest nearby.” Fred sighed. “ But the wild can be a dangerous place, and, I remind you: you are only level one.”

H.D. regarded Fred with a serious expression. “I am a man armed with a love of Nature and a willingness to embrace isolation,” H.D. said. “I have tools and provisions that my mother gave to me when I left her humble abode to set out on this adventure. And, furthermore, I am a druid. I coexist peacefully with all of the beasts of the wild.” _His expression challenged: Tell me again that I cannot survive in the woods_.

When Fred did not have a response to that, H.D. nodded. “Good. Then we can all agree that while all of this was happening, Solitude was never at the inn. He has been with Nature this entire time,” he said. “How much progress do you think I could have made on building a cabin in the time since the adventure started?”

“You’ve been in town for nine hours,” Fred said flatly. “It’s been a single night.” He looked at Gordy and Mel. “But the two of you—Did Homer really just walk out of the tavern?” Fred asked. When Gordy nodded, Fred sighed, and turned towards Mel. Mel, who was his last hope in salvaging this thing. “ _The man glances at you as you walk in. He—_ ”

“Are there any women outside the tavern?” Gordy asked.

“Okay. Fine. Let’s get this over with,” Fred said. He rolled a pair of dice. _“There are two. One of them is walking towards the river with an armful of dirty laundry. Another is sweeping the front porch to a nearby smithy._ ”

“Are they of the young, attractive sort?” Gordy asked.

“ _The women with the laundry is middle-aged, a little stocky, but with a kind face_ ,” Fred said. “ _If you’re into that, then yes, she’s attractive. The woman at the smithy has muscled arms and clearly works at the forge. And yeah, she’s fairly young_.”

“I seduce the woman at the smithy,” Gordy said.

“You’re going to need to succeed on at least one dice roll to do that,” Fred said. “Roll a d20. That’s the round one with twenty sides,” he clarified.

Gordy rolled the die. It turned up 10. The middle-most number. The most mediocre roll possible, regardless of whether one was aiming to roll high or low. “Aha!” Gordy said. “That’ll get her for sure.”

“What do you say to her?” Fred asked.

“Oh, maiden as fair as the skies, before I spied you, I had thought that true beauty was only in poetry,” Gordy proclaimed.

“ _The woman looks at you. She sets down her broom, leaning it up against the side of the building. Then she dusts off her hands, lets one hand drop to her side, and swings at you with the other_.” Fred rolled a dice. “Ah, look at that. A 19. _She clocks you squarely in the jaw_. Now I’ll roll for damage.”

Gordy stared at him, aghast. “She punched me for that?” he said, wounded.

“I rolled for her reaction, and that’s what the dice gave me,” Fred said. “Also, _there are no longer any women within sight. The woman with the laundry is long gone, and the woman at the smithy walks inside and slams the door in your face_.” He took a short breath. “Now, where were we? Ah yes, the man at the tavern.”

For once, the three of them were all silent.

“ _Bright day, breakfast, return of good sense and cheerfulness; Plato’s blushes; pandemonium of all free spirits.”_ Fred surveyed all of the men gathered at his table. “ _The weary old man glances at Henry when he walks into the tavern. Travelers in this area have been uncommon of late, and he seems surprised to see a newcomer. The innkeeper slides him a tankard, and he picks it up and takes a long swing—_ ”

Fred lifted up his bottle of beer and tipped it back, draining the last sip.

“ _—Then he sets it down and walks over to Henry._ ” Fred turned towards Mel. “Ah, fuck it,” Fred said.

“That’s what the man says?” Mel asked, confused.

“Yeah, why not. ‘ _Fuck it_.’” Fred’s expression darkened. “ _‘I was going to wait to gain your trust before I asked this of you, but this is a desperate time, and desperate men cannot afford to wait.’_ ” Fred scratched out part of his planned campaign. He flipped to the last page of his outline, to the battle he had planned to be the finale to this adventure. The final boss.

“ _‘There is a monster in the old church,’ the man says to you. ‘I need someone who can kill it.’_ ”

“I’ll do it!” Mel said immediately.

“Alright. _The man takes you to a decrepit building at the outskirts of town. It’s crumbling and overgrown. The forest has almost taken it back. For—yes, the church is located in the forest, right next door to Solitude’s cabin—_ ” Fred looked at H.D. with a stern glance, capturing his attention.

“Fine,” H.D. grumbled.

“ _Overhead, sunlight shines through a watery layer of clouds. The old sun, but seen through mist and skepticism throughout, the idea has become sublime, pale, Nordic, Konigsbergian_.”

“If an epic battle is about to take place, then you’re going to need a bard,” Gordy said.

“ _Very well. I’m assuming that all three of you are present?”_ Fred said. No one objected. He continued: _“As soon as you step foot inside the building, there is a low rumble. You feel it deep inside of you. Deeper than your bodies, deeper than your minds, all the way down to the primal part of you that is afraid of the unfamiliar_.” He took a breath. “ _Noon; moment of the shortest shadow; end of the longest error; high point of humanity; INCIPIT ZARATHUSTRA_.”

Fred paused for effect.

“ _There is a flash of blinding, brilliant light. It fills every crack, spills out from every nook in the room. Illuminates every shadow. When your vision clears, there is a man standing there. He looks old and weary, like he carries a great weight upon his shoulders, but the very air around him crackles with power. If you seek to address him, you can feel his name upon your lips. It’s a name of many shapes, but the one that is most familiar is God._ ” Fred whispered the last word with an air of finality.

“ _First principle: any explanation is better than none_.” He looked at each of them in turn. “ _God raises his hand_ —And I would like you all to roll for initiative.”


	3. The Will to Liquor

It took H.D. three tries to roll the right die. Mel’s fell off the table twice before he got the hang of rolling it with the appropriate amount of strength.

“So, God moves first,” Fred said, once they had all reported their initiative numbers. “ _He lifts his hand, and divine light pours from him, washing over you_. And all of you need to make a saving throw.”

None of them made their save. Fred grabbed a small handful of dice, shook them in his hands, then dropped them on the table. He added up the numbers with a sardonic grin.

“Are you fellows the churchgoing type?” Fred asked.

Mel, H.D., and Gordy exchanged glances. “Not particularly,” Mel said.

“I’m referring to your characters,” Fred clarified.

“No,” Mel said, looking at H.D.

“I worship the pagan gods in the style of my Hellenic ancestors,” Gordy said.

“Nature is the only greater authority I recognize,” H.D. said.

Fred nodded. “Alright. _Instead of taking 56 points of damage, you feel this wave of light wash over you, but it does nothing. God’s might rendered completely ineffective. The building shudders and quakes around you, centuries old stone beginning to crumble_. And Homer, it’s your turn.”

“I will recite a poem!” Gordy announced. “One so sublime, that even God will weep upon hearing it.” He cleared his throat.

“What kind of buff are you giving to your party members?” Fred asked, interrupting before the poem could even start. “Since you’re a bard, you have a performance ability that can boost the skills of the other characters.”

“I will boost… their skill in seduction,” Gordy decided. “Let my fellow men succeed where I cannot.” He looked at Mel and H.D., pride shining in his eyes.

“You’re buffing seduction. In the middle of the final battle to end all final battles; the battle against God Himself,” Fred said, his voice flat. “Okay. Now, moving on, Solitude, you’re up.”

“I chop off God’s head with my axe,” H.D. said, miming the action in real life. Mel successfully leaned back to avoid his swinging arms, but the bottle in front of Fred was less lucky. It sailed off the table and into Fred’s lap, dribbling beer onto his shirt.

Brown droplets slid down the jagged letters in Carly Rae Jepsen’s name. Fred stood up. He glanced at H.D., his face cycling through several emotions—or rather, one E•MO•TION—then he walked out of the room without a word.

When Fred reemerged, he had a fresh t-shirt on. This one featured a flaming upside-down pentagram with a skull and an anatomical heart in the center. Above, in dripping, scarlet letters, it said _Celine Dion_. Below it, a gothic typeface read: _my heart will go on_.

Fred sat back down at the table. He seemed calmer now, but more calculating. “H.D.,” he began. “You are playing a druid. That’s a support class. Your job is primarily a _support_ role. That means healing, spell support, maybe a little animal handling. Furthermore, you can’t just say that you chopped off God’s head. First, you have to roll to see if you even hit. And since you are _a support class_ , the odds are stacked against you.”

For once, H.D. managed to roll the correct die. “I got a 13,” he said.

“That’s a miss,” Fred said, his voice flat. “Now, Mel, it’s your turn. What do you do?”

Mel began to describe an elaborate combat maneuver involving his sword, a rope tied between Solitude and Henry, the rafters, two stacked pews, and miscellaneous other details. Gordy’s attention—which had already begun to wander the moment Fred told him there weren’t any more women that he could try to seduce—finally evaporated completely.

Gordy got up out of the chair and stretched languorously, glancing into the darkened kitchen behind him. He wandered into it, looking around until he located the refrigerator. Watching Fred nurse that beer had made him thirsty.

He opened the fridge, and light poured forth from it. Gordy surveyed the contents with satisfaction. He reached out into the light.


	4. Ecce No Homo

“I’ll save you, Solitude!” Mel shouted, rolling a twenty-sided die. This was round three of the fight with God. And things weren’t looking good. “An 19!” Mel cried out. “Does that hit?”

“Yes, actually. Just barely,” Fred said. “ _As your sword sinks into the flesh of this celestial being, you get the sense that something is wrong. That you should not be able to damage the body of God. And yet, there is blood on your blade. God is_ bleeding _._ ”

“Can I see the woods from inside this building?” H.D. asked. He seemed to be getting a little antsy.

Fred smiled. It was not a nice smile. “I’m glad you asked,” he said. “Because _as Henry strikes God with his sword, you all feel a great rumble. The church walls—once sturdy and reliable, now weakened with lack of care—crack and then finally collapse. Debris rains down all around you. Only the very center of the building—where the fight is taking place—is safe. God’s presence had protected you_.” Fred looked at H.D.. “And now, Solitude, you can indeed see the woods around you. For _there is_ nothing _but woods around you. Just forest sheltered by a cliffside with a waterfall rushing down it_.”

“Then I’m going back to finish my cabin,” H.D. said.

Fred laughed. “ _Psychological explanation—something unknown back to something familiar, easy, calm, satisfied—it gives a sense of power_ ,” he said. “ _With the unknown, danger and anxiety are given concern. The first instinct is away from these painful conditions_.”

Neither of them had a response for that.

Fred continued. “Very well. _Solitude retreats back to his familiar cabin_. Now, Mel, God’s action was spent collapsing the building, so it’s your turn again.”

“I’m going to climb up onto the tallest pile of rubble, then jump down and attack from above,” Mel said.

“That will take at least two rounds,” Fred warned him.

Mel nodded solemnly, accepting the risk.

“Okay. So, _Henry spends the round climbing. Meanwhile, God lifts his heavenly sword and… rolls to smite Henry_.” The die clattered ominously against the table.

“What do I roll to chop down a tree?” H.D. cut in. “Is a 12 good enough?”

“Sure, yes, whatever,” Fred answered, distracted. “ _God’s attack_ —”

“How big is the log?” H.D. interrupted. “Does it have enough girth to make a solid wall?”

Fred turned toward H.D. “H.D., you are aware that combat is going on right now, right? And that each round of combat is six seconds? During your turn, you can do any action that can be done in six seconds. It’ll take more than one round to chop down a single tree, so you might as well wait to do this until after combat is over.” Fred narrowed his eyes. “Assuming that there _is_ an after.”

Then Fred looked down at the die, calculated some numbers in his head, and looked back at Mel, who had been waiting patiently to see what he’d rolled. “It’s a hit,” Fred said. He rolled the damage.

“I have one hit point left,” Mel remarked. He sounded almost alarmed.

Fred regarded him. “Then if you get hit again, unless Solitude comes back to save you, Henry will die.”

Mel looked expectantly at H.D.. H.D. was craning his neck to look out the window in the kitchen, ignoring everyone at the table.

Mel turned back to face Fred. “Not if I kill him first,” Mel said triumphantly. “Can I attack him now?”

“Go ahead. Roll to see if you hit.”

Mel rolled the dice. Then for several long seconds, he stared at the result in dismay.

The small triangular facet on the die displayed a single, ill-omened digit. Mel had rolled a 1. A critical failure.

Fred gave a short, harsh laugh. “Check to see if you fumble,” he said. Mel rolled again. It wasn’t enough. “You fall off of the pile of rubble,” Fred said. “Make a dexterity saving throw.”

Mel somehow scraped by without taking additional damage. Fred was tempted to punish him for the roll anyways, but decided to be generous. If Mel’s character died now, that would be the end of the game, and Fred wasn’t ready for that to happen quite yet. No, the climax to this battle needed some greater thematic resonance than this.

“ _As you fall, you see God raise up into the air. He turns and soars off—_ ”

“He’s retreating!” Mel exclaimed.

“Not so fast,” Fred cautioned. “ _God stops before the waterfall on the side of the mountain. It’s a small waterfall, but still beautiful, and the sight of it fills you with awe. God turns toward you. He waits_.”

“I run after him with my sword,” Mel said.

Fred’s harsh smile returned. “ _At the waterfall. When we see a waterfall, we think we see freedom of will and choice in the innumerable turnings, windings, breakings of the waves,_ ” he said. “ _But everything is necessary; each movement can be calculated mathematically._ ”

As Fred went on, H.D. gazed at the window with a fixed stare, and Mel gazed at H.D. with a similar look.

“ _Thus it is with human actions; if one were omniscient, one would be able to calculate each individual action in advance, each step in the progress of knowledge, each error, each act of malice_.”

Mel broke his gaze in order to pick up the d20. He cupped it between his hands and shook it for a good, long minute.

“ _To be sure, the acting man is caught in his illusion of volition_.”

H.D. stood up. He started walking towards the window, yearning, _needing_ to be closer to nature than Fred’s unforgiving, desolate box of an apartment allowed.

“ _If the wheel of the world were to stand still for a moment and an omniscient, calculating mind were there to take advantage of this interruption, he would be able to tell into the farthest future of each being and describe every rut that wheel will roll upon_.”

Mel rolled the dice. It bounced once, twice, three times on the table.

H.D. reached up and unbuttoned his flannel shirt, feeling the pale sunlight alight upon his starved skin. He reached down and unfastened his pants, kicking them off and discarding them on Fred’s floor. He stripped away all of his clothing until he stood before Nature in all of his mortal nakedness. Only the thin glass of the window separated them, now.

“ _The acting man’s delusion about himself, his assumption that free will exists, is also part of the calculable mechanism—_ ”

Mel’s dice landed on a 20.

Fred broke off his exposition to stare at it in surprise.

Mel rolled the dice again to confirm the critical hit. Again, it stopped on 20.

He rolled to confirm a double crit. It was a 20 again.

He rolled again. 20.

The impossible run of luck stopped there. A _quadruple_ crit. Fred had never seen one before in his life. A triple crit, sure, he’d witnessed one or two of those in his time. But never anything beyond that.

But when Fred opened his mouth to describe what happened next, he was interrupted by a loud _thud_ and a strangled cry from the kitchen.


	5. Thus Spoke Carly Rae Jepsen

Gordy had been pleasantly lying on the cold tile and staring up at the ceiling, sloshed out of his goddamn mind, when a clumsy foot connected with his side, and the full deadweight of a naked adult man landed on him.

H.D., so focused on his need to get closer to Nature, had not noticed that Gordy was lying on the floor of the unlit room, and so H.D. had tripped and landed upon him with a sputtered indignant cry.

Then Mel had rushed into the kitchen and narrowly escaped the same fate only because Fred flipped on the kitchen light, and Mel was able to stop just in time to avoid stumbling into the pile of bodies near the fridge.

Fred just stared down at the disgusting lot of them, his expression utterly indecipherable.

Gordy let out a wet belch. He struggled weakly under H.D.’s weight, sending out a feeble kick that knocked over a couple of the empty bottles that surrounded him.

Mel had bent down and was attempting to help H.D. up.

H.D. waved Mel off, muttering something under his breath, his bare skin looking especially sallow in the florescent light.

Fred opened his mouth. He didn’t speak for a long moment. Then he said just three words:

“God is dead.”

Mel turned towards Fred. H.D. got to his feet. Gordy let out a moan.

“ _God is dead, and you killed him_ ,” Fred said. “ _I don’t know how, exactly, or care. Somehow, your sword severed God’s last tie to this filthy, unmoral world, and now he’s dead_.”

Fred took a deep breath. He channeled the strength of his love of music, focusing on everything that brought him joy in this hollow mortal existence. He was determined to finish his campaign. This was the one thing they couldn’t take from him.

His smile came back.

“So, what are you going to do now? You’ve done it, you’ve killed God. It’s the dawn of a new era, and now you all have to figure out how to live in it.” He laughed harshly.

He was still laughing when he held open the door to his apartment and watched the three of them leave.

Mel and H.D. had a very drunk Gordy partially slung over their shoulders. H.D.’s collar was sticking up at a weird angle after he’d hastily redressed himself, and Mel was still glowing with pride after handily defeating God.

“Yeah… hey, I know I just met you, but you’re all crazy,” Fred said. “Please lose my number and never contact me again.” He closed the door.

As the trio of disgraced adventurers made their way down the stairs, they were accompanied by the dionysian rhythm of pop music echoing from Fred’s apartment, apollonian reason lost long ago under the watery, overcast sky.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Regarding Fred’s wardrobe, the Carly Rae Jepsen shirt is a real shirt that really exists! [Here](https://www.etsy.com/listing/469456836/carly-rae-jepsen-tshirt-black-metal-but) it is.
> 
> The Celine Dion shirt also actually exists! [Here](http://fallynleaf.tumblr.com/post/156108237918/popstarsgonemetal-pop-stars-gone-metal-1) it is, along with some other, similar shirts. You can bet that Fred owns the entire collection.


End file.
